


To Walk Through Walls

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Red Dragon - Thomas Harris
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Chilton's petty torments, Hannibal can play the game but it doesn't mean he doesn't tire of it, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, The hair and more, implications of abuse, of sorts, prison fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will comes to visit Hannibal in prison - sometimes he is terror, sometimes he is gallantry, sometimes he is only tired.</p><p>--</p><p>"But it is always hard to tell with Hannibal, what is truth and what is lie. What has been carefully constructed to show him, stillness a performance of its own, and what simply is and cannot be otherwise. Or it is all truth? He wonders idly as he steps closer, but on sudden display for reasons yet unknown to him. Reasons he should really suspect, but all the same, faint displeasure, something uncomfortably like ache, starts throbbing in his gut, plays along the lines of an old familiar scar."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Walk Through Walls

Sometimes he is The Shackled God, all barely contained rage, jagged smiles that drop of ice, and words that thread themselves in riddles, aim to cut, to sear into him...The way only Hannibal is so capable of doing. Lightening and fury, the storm that would blow straight through the walls of this cell, if only given the slightest opening.

The guards, the newer ones, tremble before him when he is like this. He has tried taking a chunk out of one of them, in such a state, earned himself the suffocating mask that Will knows all too well. And the seasoned ones, the ones with egos that Hannibal loathes the most, no taste, he had purred out once in earshot, watching the narrowing of eyes, but the prickles of fear he raised in them all the same, taboo implications unmissable behind silky words, they posture and crow. Hannibal can barely see them Will knows, disarms them with a turn of tongue, brings out nightmares and secrets, laughs with his own terrible wit. But they bring out fists. He plays his games when fancy strikes, but here, admitted or not, he is always with handicap. He knows Hannibal doesn't care, will play to the end, rack up the costs if that is what is necessary for his fun. But all the same...

Sometimes, he is almost his Baltimore mask again. All thoughtful gallantry, a brim of helpful knowledge on whatever monsters they are working on. He makes remarks about the other inmates as though discussing his old glittering circle, and lodges polite inquiries into Will's life that he knows Will won't answer. But he buzzes cheerily at him, all the same, as though his day has been filled with all manner of amusements and this is simply one more pleasing thing on his agenda.

Sometimes, but not today. Today something else altogether. He lies still on his hard cot; motionless, but for a fluttering of his eyes beneath closed lids. He knows Will is there, of course he does, a purposeful maintaining of scent signature, but he doesn't move to greet him. No vicious turn of tongue, no genial pleasantries. Exhausted silence.

Splayed limbs seem pressed down with heaviness, one they don't have when they all but crackle with atmosphere, send the air sparking with sudden threads of tension from nowhere. They lie across his stomach, along the starved now, more jagged, lines of ribs, invisible through the sleep shirt he has not shed but for the way they are moved quietly with every breath. An expansion of stifled air that seems to be almost too much for the body that carries it out. His fingers curve towards the stomach that has faded, no muscle in them, splayed out along the shapeless fabric.

Hannibal is terribly pale.

His hair is short now, Will considers idly, the scene open to him, mind reaching out, unbearably drawn to find the evidence hidden in the crime. But if it were still long, still the once impeccable strands that settled along tan skin, it would be loose around him, spread like a halo on the bed, across his forehead, a blink and the holes are jarring.

But it is always hard to tell with Hannibal, what is truth and what is lie. What has been carefully constructed to show him, stillness a performance of its own, and what simply is and cannot be otherwise. Or it is all truth? He wonders idly as he steps closer, but on sudden display for reasons yet unknown to him. Reasons he should really suspect, but all the same, faint displeasure, something uncomfortably like ache, starts throbbing in his gut, plays along the lines of an old familiar scar.

The dark kiss of bruises settles bright along Hannibal's forearms, at the shadows of his neck, faintly faded around an eye. Purple, in varying shades, inky to lavender, and yellow, curled around the edges, notes of midnight blue, paint color into him. The only color in the cell, the only plumage that can grace him here. It rings with echoes of other atrocious colors, gone away, falling in neat folds and sharp edges along his body, and the thought, though Will has had many worse, brushes close to sickening.

"Hannibal-" Low, quiet, no cadence of a plea nor scold, the tiredness is starting to creep into him, as he leeches from the other, as their minds twine quickly with proximity and time, especially while Hannibal leaves his doors unlocked, swinging in the wind. The curve of claustrophobia is choking, the same inhaled air, day after day, night after night. If there even is night, the brightness of the lights he is under, they have not dimmed for days, _performance lights._ He is good at the act, loves it perhaps, in fashions, but there are no respites here save these conversations, and even then only sometimes. He offers Will a glimpse in the hopes of -

Will withdraws, forces himself away with a shake of his head, Hannibal's lips curving into the barest twist of amusement. An exhale rattles his shoulders before he is rising. The pain offered openly to Will, not relished with the pluck of strings, but raw, undoctored - not enough energy to sum up melodies. Enough to experience. The entirety of his body moves slow, ginger inches taken tentatively, as though his muscles have knotted and tightened themselves together, the hard edge of something, a boot, a baton, throbbing in the soft place beneath bone at his side, more bright feathers for the collection. Will's lips twist themselves too, but neither of them are smiling.

He stops at the edge of the bed, back in a tired slump, vulnerable as he can never be with other eyes on him. Chilton does not record these sessions, the only concession he will make - and Will, and Hannibal now he understands, is fairly certain that is true. The unspoken realization that suddenly passes between them. What this is. What he's being given...what he's being asked. Without thinking, Will murmurs to the one orderly he has any taste for to dim the lights. The man looks half a mind to protest, orders, you know?, on his tongue. But whatever he sees in Will's face, it turns him back to glance at Hannibal, who is watching neither of them, but always listening, and he nods.

A different kind of game. A ceasefire requested that only Will can grant. He can only imagine the curl of lip that would come if he attempted the same. But fairness is not in the rules.

When the darkness falls around them, Hannibal's entire body seems to relax, the tension trapped in every cell drifting slowly away, leaving dark trails in its wake. For a moment, Will sees only blood pouring from him. The games are costly, no matter what Hannibal would have them believe.

"Does this disappoint you?" The stark murmur seems to echo with no move of lip, and once he would have scoffed, but he only sits back in his chair. The delicate throb of a headache, his own and borrowed, stirring in the depths of his skull.

"No, Hannibal." Sometimes Hannibal lies, mostly he tells versions of the truth. But Will has sworn never to lie to him again. There is no more cause for that. It is hard enough to use what's real. "Go to sleep."

In answer, a hum fills the space, drowsy and low, rough. The voice always a shade out of tune from disuse, but the first brushes of melody are in him again. Will hasn't heard this one in a while though, the tired notes of friendship, of something else, unbidden. But he doesn't question further as Hannibal all but melts back to lying, something more serene, but mostly just desirous spread across his features in the dimness. Sleep overwhelms quickly, and Will wonders which bed Hannibal is tucking himself into behind closed eyes. The rhythm of exhales evening, the walls stone even at rest, but softened in ways perceptible only to him. There's a restlessness in his fingers as he watches, watches...on, watches...over, the faint brush of bangs under his hand almost a reality. But the bangs do not exist, nor the touch. 

Silently, he settles back in his chair, swings the pendulum, and imagines he can walk through walls.


End file.
